Divine Intervention
by ChilledFlame
Summary: Trowa and Catherine are not comfortable with their life in Athens. However, they have more problems than they are even aware of when they are unknowingly caught up in a quarrel between Gods. AU
1. The Sun

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Disclaimer:

Please understand that Gundam Wing in no way belongs to me. Keeping that in mind, please enjoy a story that is completely profit-less.

**Warnings:** Shounen ai and Het. AU. Slavery. Polytheism. Mature language and themes.

**Pairings:** Main: 3x4 On the Side: 13x11, 1xR(+2), 6x9. Any other pairings are pending.

**Note:** I've been aching to put the GW cast into a Greek setting for quite a while.

**Setting:** Ancient Greece between the Classical Age: 462BC-404BC Athens.

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**The Sun**

_Twang Thunk_

"Export-Import," the lawgiver read the scroll out loud. His deep green eyes traveled over the official document with intent, but little interest. (1)

The ink scratched the rough textured surface lazily. Lines thickened along points where he lost his interest, or his unusual brown bangs obscured his vision, and effected his fluid hand writing. "A three percent raise on exports should balance the budget," his reserved voice sliced through the silent room.

_Twang Thunk_

The feathered quill in his hand snapped. He sighed and unclenched his hand. Since when did he become so tense?

He heard the disruptive sound once again; he judged that it hit the branch right below his window. Two seconds of quiet contemplation was all it took for him to discard his stuffy papers.

With casual grace, not often synonymous with a lawgiver, he prowled down the stone steps. The man didn't even spare the elderly slave a glance when he passed her. She quickly tightened her grip on the basket of laundry she was taking outside. The woman relaxed as soon as her young master was out of sight. He always managed to give off a great, cold, intimidating aura. Standing next to him was like standing next to a tall statue.

"Catherine," his voice reached to the other side of the courtyard.

Sun glanced off the piece of iron on the tip of his sister's arrow before the weapon became aerial. Trowa didn't move an inch, as the arrow grazed his cheek. A small line of crimson formed along side his slightly tanned face.

"By the Gods!" exclaimed his sister. With her bow still in her dainty hands, she jogged the distance from one end of the courtyard to the next. "I can't believe you're actually outside!" she remarked with a mock tone inflicting her sweet voice.

He rose an eyebrow, but showed no more expression, otherwise. "It is very difficult to concentrate on work with weapons flying near my window."

She adapted a snide smirk. "Work is it? What you call a distraction, I call salvation."

"What's your point?" he retorted with a slight frown.

Catherine spread her arms, as if to embrace all the courtyard. "You see this?" she questioned. "This is Athens. All these plants were carefully sewn here, and content to stay within these walls, and that...," she added while pointing to a stray vine climbing desperately up the wall. "...is you."

"I have to remind someone to tear that thing's roots, it could weaken the wall's foundation," he deadpanned, letting the whole symbolic message drift right over his head.

She groaned and hid her face in her calloused hand. One grey eye peeked from her fingers. "What did I do in my life to deserve such a brother?"

"Take it up with the Fates," he advised. (2)

The warrioress crossed her arms and commented, "Like I have any means to communicate with gods?"

"I've looked at your vine; I've listened to your poor metaphors; is there anything else you require of me?" he questioned with slight irritation tingeing his words.

With both hands on her hips she scolded, "This isn't very nice, Trowa; you can't even spare a little time for your sister. I wanted to play with you a little." He had little warning before he heard the distinctive sound of metal unsheathing from leather; he had seconds to duck the heavy blade that was aimed for his neck. His hair ruffled slightly from the sheer speed of the strike.

He was crouched like a primitive beast. The flight or fight mode was activated. However, he refused to flee from the taunting of his sister.

She held up her sword with the same pride as other women displayed their fine jewelery. Unfortunately, his sister had that mischievous gleam in her eye.

Catherine pointed behind him with the shiny tip. Unsure whether this was a trick or not, he kept his eyes focused on the sharp weapon. With an exasperated sigh, she re-sheathed her blade. Trowa allowed himself the luxury of taking his eyes off his foe. Behind him, his own sword leaned against the wall. It seemed that his crafty sister was determined to spar with him long before he walked into the courtyard.

This time, he sensed malicious movement behind him. Catherine, the closest person in his life, had used that small distraction to attack him.

He instinctively dived to the right, his hands reflexively catching him. Instead of remaining on the dirt, he lifted his body up and performed a front flip. His flawless display of acrobats landed him near his weapon. He grasped the handle while twisting away from a vicious thrust, courtesy of one hell-bent sister.

With a small effort he blocked a heavy overhead swing with his sword still in its sheath. It took a fair amount of strength to heave the other weapon away long enough to free his own blade.

Their swords clashed in a standard face-off. Both weapons were intertwined, crossed at a perfect angle, giving neither side any leverage. He felt her foot sneak around his. Instantly, he used the other's underhanded tactic and jerked his own foot to unbalance her. She fell at an odd angle, but managed to roll away from her opponent, sword still clutched in her hand.

He charged her with his weapon lowered like a spear. The woman dodged to the left, and he quickly shifted his steps. Swords met in another assault.

The angry sounds of metal on metal vibrated against the walls of the courtyard. A few heads poked from doorways. Some slaves took a break from their momentary task to watch the colossal battle between the two siblings.

A younger slave girl commented, "Lady Catherine and Lord Trowa battle with such wild intensity!"

A few were awed by the display of strength, speed, and agility that the two warriors displayed. This battle equalized the strengths of both sexes. The woman used her smaller size and speed to slip past her brother's defenses at every opportunity. While, he used extreme physical force to weaken her attempts and try to wear her down.

The sound of a sword thumping on the soft ground signaled the end of the fight.

Trowa held his blade to the woman's neck. The sharp edge kissed her skin, yearning to bite into it. "I win," Trowa proclaimed softly between haggard breaths.

A small pressure between his ribs alerted him to the presence of a second blade, a dagger, held at a perfect angle to pierce his heart. "It looks like a draw," Catherine boosted. Both of them, breathing heavily and glistening with sweat and dirt, stepped back and placed their weapons back in their proper sheaths.

Catherine attempted to place her mussed hair in somewhat of an orderly fashion. However, her curly, red mass still fell messily above her shoulders.

"It seems that you've lost your touch, little bro," she playfully teased.

He retorted, "Only because you cheated."

"There are no rules in war Trowa. Besides, you should have expected that, or have your senses dulled in this philosophy infested city?" she said coolly; though, her eyes still held a fire from the previous battle.

"Damn it Cathy," hissed the vexed soldier. He noticed his small audience and quickly reprimanded, "Isn't there work to be done?" The slaves quickly scurried to finish their tasks. "It's not my fault we're here, and it's definitely not my fault that you live here. You have all the freedom imaginable to return to Sparta."

"But Trowa," she argued. "I have to stay here for you. I can't let your soul decay alone."

He shook his head sadly, "Sparring does little to lift my spirits."

"Then leave," she argued.

"I'm grounded to this place by obligation," he said while cradling a headache.

She growled at that word. "Father is unfair. Pushing you into this terrible arrangement and binding you to it with his death!"

"Sis," he scolded.

"Sorry," she apologized with a pout. "I shouldn't say such thing's about the deceased (3), but I don't know if I'm able to forgive him for what he put you through."

Trowa put his hand on her shoulder and soothed, "It's not the worst possible situation. I'm a tad homesick, and I have the most boring job. But I can't help but to count my blessings. You are a free woman. You are a Spartan woman, and no one can take that away from you. However, it appears I am where I'm suppose to..."

"No you're not!" she argued. "You were not raised here! You were raised a Spartan man, as well! A dead man's words should not bind you to this city!"

"I was born here."

"It's not your home!"

"We should clean up; I'll get that one girl to bring us a basin of fresh water. We don't want to offend at the evening meal," he said while walking away. Catherine was still ready to argue; however, she was hungry. All that exercise left her with little energy, and little room to argue with her brother.

She made one last remark, "Delia, might throw a fit when she sees the way I look."

Trowa remarked in a flat tone, "At least she would do something a little interesting. Of course, my presence might prevent her from speaking out of turn."

Delia was Trowa's wife. It was part of their father's will. He wanted his son secured in a healthy marriage to promote his status as a citizen of Athens. Unfortunately, his son couldn't stand to be in the woman's presence for more than twenty minutes. He most often commented that his paper work was more interesting than her. Delia was...she was the perfect image of an Athenian woman: meek, soft-spoken, talented in the domestic arts, and she never questioned her position in society. She wore the latest trends, the finest clothing, and the best perfumes, but could never win her husband's good opinion. Catherine had too much heart to tell the woman that Trowa preferred his own company, or any one else's, to her's.

That night Trowa slept on the floor of his study. He couldn't get away from work, and he didn't feel like crawling to his bedroom. The hard surface was rather comfortable actually. It reminded him of his youth in the barracks, and he fell asleep as easily as a child.

He woke up to an annoying persistent tapping on his shoulder, and a soft voice in his ear, "My Lord, I wish to go to market today. May I..." The sweet perfume and overly soft voice alerted him to the presence of his wife.

"Go," he commanded without opening his eyes.

It was another ten minutes before he was able to sit up. The foggy blanket of sleep was swiftly thrown off of him. He was wide awake and ready to tackle those papers.

His quill had barely touched the paper when he heard a familiar sound.

_Twang Thunk_

Not today Catherine.

Between trying to ignore the constant thumping of the arrows, and trying to suppress his growing boredom, he was having a cosmically difficult time with his papers. By the Gods, did Plouto (4) himself assign him this particular task?! It had been stretching for nearly an eternity.

A second eternity later, he flexed the last cramps out of his fingers.

The sun was directly over the city; in his most vain hour, he showered the world with his brilliance, and yet never allowed anyone to reach his golden splendor. Icarus tried once, and his reward was to plummet to his death. That should be a lesson for all: never reach for the miserable sun.

The sun had settled closer to the horizon by the time a tentative knock resounded on his door. "Dinner is ready, Milord," the dried voice spoke. He recognized the tone to be one of the slaves. His household came with three domestic slaves actually.

Gaia was presently knocking at the door. She was a competent worker. However, her age was unknown, even to herself. They all supposed her to be a little older than Zeus himself. She ran the household, and was second only to his wife... Wasn't she planning on freeing the old slave? Trowa wasn't sure, and he didn't care. The household and all it's occupants were Delia's responsibility.

He barely remembered the other slave named Iulus. She was as dull as they came. Worse, she was completely and utterly submissive. She was in charge of Delia's son. At the tender age of four, the child had already learned that he had complete control over her. He caught Iason several times demanding unquestionable things...like having Iulus pull his small chariot like a common mule. Again, Trowa didn't feel inclined to interfere. He disagreed with how their son was raised, but it was her responsibility not his. Sometimes, Catherine scolded him, but it mattered not. He viewed no one as an authority figure other than Delia. Often, his sister would mutter, "If only I was allowed ten minutes alone with him."

The last slave was a girl that his wife adored. He knew she had long, dark hair and wide blue eyes. However, he couldn't remember her name. Normally, he caught the small girl peaking around a corner at him..., too frightened to be in his presence.

As he descended the stairs, the smells of fish, peppered lightly with spices, floated in the air. Gaia's cooking would be sorely missed, if she ever left.

He sat right next to his sister, who was sipping lightly on some wine. "Has the Lady of the House returned yet?" he questioned. He was slightly distracted by Iulus struggling to settle a hyper Iason.

"Nope," she punctuated with a smack of her lips. Her eye twitched slightly when the plates rattled from a well-aimed fist to the table. Who knew such a tiny creature could put up so much fuss?

"Lord Iason," the slave addressed the struggling child. "Lady Delia insists that you eat and be still at every meal." Her arms secured a firmer hold on the child. For her efforts, she received a kick in the thigh and two punches in the arm. She didn't protest to either.

"Momma's not here. I don't wanna listen to you! I want mamma!"

Under her breath, Catherine muttered, "Just ten minutes."

"Steady, Delia should be home soon," her brother reminded. As much as his wife's presence irritated him, she was a necessity during meal time. She was the only one who could calm their possessed son.

Like a blessing, she arrived, her arms curiously empty. Her face was beaming with post-shopping pride. "Iason," she cooed. "Are you eating your lunch like a good boy?" The miracle of a child-mother bond happened. He stopped fussing and picked at his food, as if he had always been starving.

"Welcome back, Milady," the abused slave greeted. Her breath was a little haggard.

"I apologize for being so tardy," she added softly to her husband, as she sat directly across from him. He, in turn, waved the apology off with a simple hand gesture.

He responded disinterested, "I assume you couldn't find anything worth purchasing."

"On the contrary," she said with a smug smile firmly planted on her face. "I found a rare treasure with the countenance of spun gold-something that even a God can boost about..."

"Well don't keep us in suspense," Catherine interrupted with her lips barely peeking over her wine glass. "It sounds like you found happiness in a box."

Delia offered her a demure yet condescending smile, before replying, "Close to it. He will make a lovely addition to this house."

Trowa lifted his eyes from his half-consumed meal.

"He?" he questioned.

"He's with Gaia right now. She's instructing him briefly. You should have seen the smile on her face when I told that she was being replaced. She can live the rest of her years a free woman. Oh, and did you know she had saved up a small sum? I couldn't believe it myself. My, she has enough money to buy her own house, and dare I say even a slave. Imagine that. Though, I have confidence that she will run her household in a fair manner. Don't you agree? She does...did such a wonderful job helping me manage my own home," she chatted. Her voice was a controlled stream of information.

Trowa picked up his full glass of wine. He could have sworn he emptied it. Briefly, he caught a glimpse of black hair scurrying into the kitchen with a huge jug. The girl was like a shadow sometimes.

All of the dishes were cleared when Gaia made her appearance. "Lady Delia," she requested.

"Yes Gaia-Dear," Delia spoke in an affectionate tone.

"He's ready to meet the whole family," the elderly slave announced.

She practically hopped out of her seat. "Milord. Catherine," she addressed in a reserved tone. It was evident she was trying to suppress her enthusiasm. "You have to see him, and tell me if he's not beautiful." Both of the siblings were willing to oblige while their tummies were full, at least.

Trowa fixed his eyes on the kitchen doorway, expecting nothing spectacular. Gaia ushered in a young man, and Trowa never forgot the moment that his eyes laid on the most breathtaking being. It was on that day, at that very moment, that the sun decided to descend upon him.

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Phew...there it is. Oh yeah, notes.

(1). I gave Trowa the boring job of a lawgiver. I was originally going to make him a defense attorney. However, after studying the ancient Greek court system excessively, I discovered that there was no official position for a lawyer.

(2) The Fates-- I don't think it's very necessary, but they were also called the Graeae. They were the three sisters in charge of...well the fates: the fate of man, of gods, and the world. The three were:

Clotho the spinner

Lachesis the dispenser-she assigned destiny

Atropos the unchangeable, who cut the thread of life

I guess, most people would be familiar with them from their debut on Disney's Hercules.

(3) In Athens, one was forbidden to speak ill of the dead.

(4) Plouto is another name for Hades. It was considered 'unlucky' to speak the name of the Lord of the Underworld. He not only controlled the dead, but everything that came from the earth (crops). After all, the Underworld was thought to be located underground. Plouto was more of a respectful name to address him as. Romans adapted the name Plouto, as well.


	2. The Beautiful

**Disclaimer:** Please understand that Gundam Wing in no way belongs to me. Keeping that in mind, please enjoy a story that is completely profit-less.

**Warnings:** Shounen ai and Het. AU. Slavery. Polytheism. Mature language and themes.

**Note:** Man I love my reviewers. All of you are just too damn perceptive! I've corrected some mistakes from chapter one, because of all of you. Thanks a lot for reminding me that I'm not perfect.

1st: The Peloponnesian War began smack dab in the middle of the Classical Age of Athens, 431BC. It was between Athens and Sparta, and the war ended with the defeat of Athens in 404BC, thus ending the Classical Age. Since Sputnik mentioned the Peloponnesian war, I just had to put my two sense in. Why? Because I had completely forgotten to mention that Divine Intervention takes place right before the war 406-405BC, so tensions are extremely high between the two City States.

2nd: Once again, someone caught my mistake. Trowa is not a lawmaker. They were called 'Lawgivers'. I know it's a little far-fetched that a Spartan would hold an official position in Athenian law, but oh well.

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_The Beautiful_

The slave boy felt overwhelmed. The elderly women listed off a river of rules that he did not want to disobey. He did not know what would happen if he didn't do everything his superior commanded of him. He was confused, confused and scared. What would happen if he broke a rule? How did this slave thing work again? Lady Delia and Lord...he forgot his master's name already; would that anger them? His nails dug into his palms. More than anything, he wanted desperately to know what situation he had been thrown in.

"Look up when I am speaking to you!" commanded the elderly slave harshly. He snapped his eyes to stare at her chin. He couldn't bring himself to stare into the silver void of her eyes. They were so glossy, it unnerved him, and by the way the woman shifted her eyes at the slightest sound..., he knew she did not see the world.

Her harsh voice continued, "Now, I'm sure Lady Delia will want you to meet the rest of the family." He nodded his head. His view shifted from the elderly woman's chin, to her neck, and back to her chin.

He followed the woman who he was quickly introduced to as Gaia. He watched his feet as he moved. It wouldn't be proper to trip over one's feet on the first introduction.

"...beautiful," he heard the Lady of the house speak with reverence. Beautiful. He remembered that word spoken before in a voice that sang. He remembered that same word repeated over and over again...from his rough captors to his fast-talking slave trader. It felt as if that word had called forth his existence and held him bound to the mortal realm. There was also something about that word, something that ignited a dormant fire within him. It felt overwhelming, and he suppressed those feelings.

"Oh please," he heard his Mistress, as she glided towards him. "Do hold your face up. We would all like to see you." The woman had a pleasant, yet self-satisfying, smile on her full lips.

With natural submissiveness, he replied, "Of course, ma'am." The lady's appearance was easier on the eyes than the old slave's was. An oval shaped, ivory face beamed at him. Her red painted lips tended to pout while speaking, and her small nose crinkled slightly while large, doe brown eyes constantly smiled. Long, perfumed hair curled in playful ringlets tickling her robust bosom. He noted her very feminine curves. The woman was more solid than he was.

"What do you think Milord?" her voice pleaded with her husband.

When the slave heard the Master speak, he felt like crawling under the nearest piece of furniture, "What do we need a male house slave for?" He set his goblet down gently, but it could have been slammed down, as everyone but the red-headed woman flinched. The man's voice had sliced through the jovial atmosphere with a blade made with cold indifference.

"He's just a slave, Delia. I don't care. Meal times are one of the few times out of the day when I'm free from your frivolous, feminine hobbies. You want a new slave, fine with me, just don't waste my time with this pointless show-casing," he snapped.

The slave practically jumped to the side when the young master brushed past him and disappeared out of the front door.

The other young woman at the table sighed, took one last swig from her goblet, and ambled her way up the marble steps... How much did she have to drink that night?

Another homely slave had hoisted the little master in her arms, he had grown tired from spreading his food beyond the far reaches of his plate, and slowly carried him up the steps, as well. She had spared her mistress with one last sympathetic glance before disappearing to the floor above.

Gaia, hunched over and clumsy, walked over to her mistress and held out her hands to take hers, "Milady, Lord Trowa has been busy lately, surely..."

"You can go to bed, Gaia. I know you worked hard today, and you must be tired," she told her in a clear unbroken voice.

The woman glared at the new slave briefly, before replying, "Yes, Milady; have a peaceful night." Gaia hobbled out of the front door.

Now, he was left alone with his mistress, the woman responsible for his current predicament. What could he say to her? What was he allowed to say to her? How could he make her stop staring at him with those watery eyes? There was something that needed to be done...something that needed to be said. He knew that much. However, before he could form one syllable, she spoke first.

"He doesn't mean everything he says," she voiced like a mantra. The slave felt she spoke those words more as a comfort to herself than a courtesy to him.

"Milady," he inquired, remembering how the other slaves had addressed her.

"Oh, sorry dear," she cooed. Her soft hand ran along side his cheek, and then weaved through his hair. "You really are beautiful. That golden hair of yours looks like it was spun from the sun... So beautiful." She spoke, as if admiring a statue. He saw his reflection in her eyes. Despite the awkwardness, he had to admit that her soft finger tips felt nice on his scalp, like the mother's touch he never knew.

"Do you have a name?" she questioned in an almost whisper.

"Quatre," he whispered without much thought.

"Quatre," she repeated with a concentrated look. "How odd that your name should mean four." (1)

"I don't understand," replied her slave.

Lady Delia waved her hand . "Never you mind Quatre. Now help me with the dishes. It would seem that no one saw the need to clean up after themselves."

A small voice piped, "I can do that milady." A young, slave girl scurried around the corner. Quatre never saw a more beautiful child. She was the embodiment of innocence. If this girl was a creature, she would be a baby faun... A baby faun with long, midnight tresses and big, baby blue eyes. He stared at this creature, and a small, affectionate smile unconsciously formed on his lips.

"Hello," he greeted automatically.

Delia kneeled and cupped her face. "This is my Nysa," she proclaimed fondly. "Isn't she the most precious creature you have laid eyes on?" Quatre only nodded mutely. The mistress's eyes had glazed over slightly with the same reverence she showed towards Quatre. This woman had successfully cocooned herself in a protective haze of beauty and grandeur: fine pottery, vivid paintings, breathtaking statues, the luscious courtyard, the delicately crafted marble interior..., even slaves. It was like she was trying to build her own little world of majesty and splendor.

"Nysa Dear, this is Quatre," she introduced with an airy voice.

The girls's cheeks slightly flushed when she shyly proclaimed, "I know... I was listening over there." She had pointed to the kitchen. "Hello Quatre," she greeted pleasantly with a small bow. He smiled and bowed his head in return.

Delia announced with finality, "I got it. Nysa, do show Quatre how to clear the table, and after that you can go to bed. Oh, and show Quatre his room, the one second nearest to main building." She turned to the blond slave. "Be here early tomorrow morning, Nysa will wake you, so we can start your proper training..., and give you new robes." She fingered his cheap tunic with distaste.

The small, slave girl had secured her mistress's other hand in her two small ones. "Milady, you should get some rest. I will show Quatre everything he needs to know, I promise," she replied, as if her mistress's peace of mind was the most important thing in the world. It was clearly evident that the Lady of the house had a special bond with the help.

"Of course," she complied with a yawn. Quatre found it amusing how easily persuaded she was by a simple slave girl. Nysa escorted the lady to the steps and waved as the woman ascended, her delicate footsteps receding into the darkness.

Clearing the table was not a task. It was definitely no bigger of a chore than answering all of Nysa'a inquiries.

"Where do you come from?" questioned the girl while they wiped the remaining crumbs off the table's surface.

He looked into her sparkling, curious eyes, and suddenly felt a whole lot younger. "I-I don't know."

She narrowed her fine eyes in indignation. "Fine then," she replied in a low pissy voice. Quatre had the sudden urge to apologize to the offended girl. He just didn't know why.

"Sorry, I just don't know," he admitted.

Her features softened just a bit, resembling a child once again. "It's okay, I'm used to adults." He understood now. She believed that he was dismissing her questions, and not giving her any respect simply because she was young. Being a little girl, and a slave, she had probably grown accustomed to being treated like a lesser human being.

With more gall than he had shown with anyone, he lifted her chin. "Maybe, someday I will know where I'm from, and you will be the first I will tell about it." She smiled and nodded in understanding.

"I've lived my whole life in Athens," the girl revealed without any prompting.

"Really?" he questioned. He was genuinely curious about this young girl's history, considering he did not have one of his own.

"Yes..., I think we're finished now?" the slave girl announced while observing the now gleaming table. She nodded her head in agreement with her words. He watched her gorgeous ebony waves roll across her petite shoulders. Delia was most definitely a collector of beauty, if Nysa was any example.

A small, smooth hand latched onto his own, and he was being escorted out the door, and across the courtyard. It was dark enough to blind a cat, but the girl knew her paces. They did not run into a single tree, or stub their toe on a single rock. The night was mysterious, casting shadows that looked like demons, and making trees move like giant monsters. Quatre shivered slightly from that thought. Nysa remained unaffected by the lack of light. It seemed that make-believe monsters were furthest from her mind.

They arrived shortly at a small entrance. She motioned him inside, and he had to duck his head slightly. The doorway was apparently constructed for midgets. His room wasn't much bigger. It was a fourth the size of the kitchen with nothing but a single bed and chest. He didn't know it at the time, but that was a lot more than most slaves received.

"Goodnight Quatre," she said from the door. He caught her blue eyes with his own and smiled.

"Goodnight Nysa," he returned.

Soon his only companions were the bed and the chest. He crawled under the woven quilt, but he did not fall asleep quickly. Images of that day flooded into his mind. It all went so fast: the slave traders, his new masters, and his new life. He was content with his new life, if anything. Lady Delia seemed like a fair master, and Nysa was as charming as a lamb. However, there was one thorn in his new life. The Lord was harsh and unwelcoming. He did not yet know what he did in the first place to receive such a heated look, but he was certain that it was undeserved.

Lord Trowa did not move a single facial muscle, but those eyes spoke volumes. He was upset with the slave; those smoldering green embers said that much. What did he do?! Was there a way to seek his Master's forgiveness, or would it be best to avoid the scary young man.

He pulled his covers over his head until the whole room was veiled in the woven cotton.

Trowa was dangerous. He knew that much. Although, it would have been best for him not to dwell on his new master, he couldn't distract his mind from him. He closed his eyes, and all he saw was his master with his stone face and smoldering stare. There was something alluring about the danger..., something obsessive. He wanted to know why Trowa was so cold and callous. He wanted to pick apart every inch of the young man's intriguing psyche.

Then the image of Delia's teary face appeared in his mind. Didn't he know that he hurt his own wife in the worst way possible? Could he not feel the woman's soul shatter a little bit when he spoke so coldly to her? Respectively, he should hold the man in contempt..., but he could only feel timid curiosity towards the one who could so easily dismiss the feelings of those around him.

Several other muddled thoughts filled his head until he was so exhausted from thinking that he had to sleep. In his last moments of consciousness, he heard the distant rumble of a storm.

* * *

Lightning bolts flew in every direction, terrorizing the mortal realm and inconveniencing those in the immortal plane. Although, all the gods kept a wide girth of the thundering god, most felt his wrath. A beautiful, curly haired, blond was flirting with a brawny god in armour, when a bolt of angry light exploded behind her, and caused her to throw herself into the arms of her companion.

"Tyrant!" she screamed at the peak of Mt. Olympus. The Goddess of Love was confident that the Thunder Lord could not hear her, otherwise she wouldn't have dared to shout insults.

Arms tightened around her protectively. She was Aphrodite, for heaven's sake, she knew when someone was trying to get fresh with her. However, being Aphrodite, she could not say, 'no' to the intimacy. She craved a man's touch like no other goddess, and it looked like Aries was keeping her bed that night.

She flinched in his arms when the sound of thunder echoed once again; it sounded like a blundering giant was on a rampage. Aphrodite groaned. These pointless temper tantrums _his majesty _had been throwing were becoming a very big headache to the other gods, especially to those who preferred quiet, romantic nights.

Ever since the Oracle's prediction of Zeus falling at the hands of a mortal, he had been rather testy, but who wouldn't be? Anyway, it didn't concern her. It wasn't her life at risk.

* * *

The gods make a brief appearance in this chapter. Though, you might not know it, the Gundam Cast have replaced the Greek Gods.

Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love, or really the Goddess of Lust. Her origins are sketchy at best. One belief was that she emerged perfect and full-grown when the blood of Cronos spilled into the ocean, riding a giant clam (Yeah, that image.) She's married to Hephastus, the Blacksmith. Her marriage does not stop her from making a slut of herself, but no matter how loose she gets, she can always bath in the ocean and become a virgin once again (Those Greeks). You already know this character, Midii Une. It was a toss up between her or Sylvia Noventa, as they both fit the goddess's profile.

Aries is another least favorite of mine. It really irks me when Heero is compared to the God of War. If people knew the finer details of GREEK mythology, they would know that Aries was nothing more than a self-serving, spineless, war-mongering, crybaby of a god. He's belligerent and bad tempered. His throne was made from human skin... Is anyone convinced that he wasn't a very nice god yet? Well, Heero is not Aries. That part is reserved for Nicole. Now, I've just realized how odd of a couple I've made: Nicole X Midii. I'm demented; there's no other excuse.

Who's Zeus? Well, he hasn't made an official appearance yet, so I'll keep it to myself. The identity of Hera will also remain a secret, for now.

Notes:

(1) I read somewhere that four is an unlucky number... I can't prove it though.


	3. The Idle

**Disclaimer:** Please understand that Gundam Wing in no way belongs to me. Keeping that in mind, please enjoy a story that is completely profit-less.

**Warnings:** Shounen ai and Het. AU. Slavery. Polytheism. Mature language and themes.

**Summary:** Trowa and Catherine are not comfortable with their life in Athens. However, they have more problems than they are even aware of when they are unknowingly caught up in a quarrel between Gods.

**Pairings:** Main: 3x4 And: 13x11, 1xR, 2x5, 6x9. Any other pairings are pending.

**Setting:** Ancient Greece between the Classical Age: 462BC-404BC Athens.

Gods:

**Aphrodite:** Midii **Aries:** Nicole

Note: As always, reviews are appreciated. Thank you.

* * *

_The Idle_

Trowa despised distractions. Concentrating on the immensely dull documents was difficult enough. The ink blurred until he no longer saw any form of calligraphy. It was a mess of lines. Trowa put his quill down. It was useless to get anything accomplished with the racket his darling little boy was causing. He prayed to the gods that Delia would come home soon. Between childish accusations of, "Meanie, Meanie!" and the slaves' desperate cries to console the irate child..., Trowa was almost ready to do something about it.

Exasperation finally won over. With all the determination of an agitated lion, he stalked downstairs to witness the chaos himself.

He found his son punching the ground lightly with his little fist, while he yelled at the two slaves. If it wasn't for the kid's complete lack of control, he would have made a perfect Trowa double. He looked just like his father in every way, except for his fairer complexion -- that he received from Delia.

His steps faltered when he saw the golden-haired slave (1). It'd already been a long week, and yet the slave still affected him the same. His heart went to his throat, and he felt as apprehensive about the slave as when he had first picked up a sword. He was still wary of himself and his bubbling emotions. He did not know how to treat those kinds of intense feelings, so he fell back into his comfort zone and treated the new slave like an enemy.

Iulus and Quatre were looking at him with apprehension. They both wore the same red faced anger as his son, but without the tears.

"Milord," cried the dull slave. Her voice effectively cut through the trance-like haze. It was easy to focus on her. It was like talking to a pole rather than a person. The sight of this plain slave nullified the ache in his chest that the other one had stirred. With a small amount of effort, he was able to pull himself together.

"Where is all the noise coming from?" he said. It was as quiet as it could be -- atleast at the moment. The three were staring at him in mute shock.

Suddenly, Iulus released a floodgate of accusations. However, she was not blaming the tantrum throwing child, she had her finger firmly planted on Quatre. The blonde slave glared at her, and argued back with zeal. Together they aggravated their Master further.

"Stop," his voice barely rose an octave, but it caused the desired effect. Obviously, Iulus was too upset with Quatre to coherently talk to him, so he had no other choice. "Quatre," he spoke. The words rolled off his tongue with surprising ease.

"I...," he responded, and clutched the shield-sized item in his arms. Trowa recognized it as a turtle.

"Isn't that my son's pet?" he interrogated. (2)

"Well..."

Iulus chirped in, "Yes, he had no right to..."

"I asked _him_," Trowa spoke with slight irritation. Why couldn't slaves in this house hold their tongues for one minute? If silence truly was gold, he was living in a poor house.

"It is," Quatre confirmed. Iason had overcome his shock over his father's appearance and began to jump up and down, reaching for his confiscated turtle. Honestly, the turtle was the only living thing in the house not giving his master a headache.

Trowa waited for the slave to elaborate. However, it seemed that he wasn't as eager as Iulus to blab. "Why do you have it then?" He questioned. His eyes strayed to Iason, who was persuading the slave to drop the turtle by stepping on his toes. Quatre didn't flinch in the least; he continued to stare determinedly into Trowa's eyes, and for a moment, the ex-soldier felt vulnerable. It seemed there was more steel to the slave than he previously suspected.

"Stop it, Iason," he sighed. How could his son be so loose tempered? His mother was as mild as an one millimeter puddle, and Trowa had an iron grip on his emotions.

"Milord," spoke the blonde slave. "I didn't think that Lord Iason should play with Atlas anymore...he was jabbing a stick into the creature's shell. I took Atlas away, and then all this happened. I still think it wasn't right. He should be more considerate." Iulus rolled her eyes.

"It's an animal," she growled in irritation.

"He can still feel," retorted Quatre.

"Those feelings are inferior to humans," Iulus condescended.

"IT'S MINE!" the toddler screamed.

The blond defended rather passionately, "People have no right to disregard other creatures like that. They still can feel pain, so it doesn't matter whether we're superior or not. We still should consider..."

"Enough!" the Lord snapped. The pain between his eyes was tremendous at that point.

"Iulus, out," he commanded with rare authority.

"But I," she pleaded. However, a defeated look settled in her dark eyes, and she left without further complaint.

Swiftly, he grasped his son in his arms and felt the small form gasp. Iason naturally hooked his arms around his parent. Trowa shifted his boy's weight to one arm. The last time he had picked up his son, he was much lighter.

"And you," he spoke icily to the slave, who even at his most defiant, had managed to make the man's heart beat rabidly. "Your job is to maintain order in this house. Keep it nice and simple. I don't want you deciding what my son should and should not do. Either consult Delia or myself, or you can answer to the tail end of a whip." Briefly, he toyed with the image of the alluring slave kneeled over and crying out Trowa's name. He then remembered that they didn't presently own a whip.

"Yes Milord," conceded Quatre. His form shook a tad. "But he can't harm this creature any longer."

Trowa's eyes narrowed. He dared to set conditions... It was oddly satisfying. He felt a strange sort of forbidden attraction towards that defiance. It was refreshing to witness such a strong will, but he wondered how long the slave's will could last. The air of Athens tended to morph the best of them into spineless cowards.

Iason's hands clutched his tunic. He was reminded of the luggage in his arms.

"Go tend to the courtyard. There's some weeds growing alongside the foundation. I want them all pulled by sundown." That should keep him busy and far away.

"Yes Milord," he answered. Quatre, still holding on to the turtle, walked away hastily. Trowa watched his form until he disappeared beyond the doorway leading outside.

He secured a firmer grasp on Iason and discovered that the small child had fallen asleep. All that yelling must have tired the small one out. "Thank Zeus," Trowa sighed. He heard the melodious tones of his wife sail through the air. It seemed that Delia choose to arrive early. Where had she been anyway? He couldn't remember where he sent his wife that day.

Another voice reached his ears, "What have you done with the place Delia? Every day it looks more and more splendid!" His shoulders stiffened. He had sent her to Aegea's place, but he didn't think his wife would be cruel enough to bring the woman back. No man, no god, no beast could send a brave man retreating faster than Aegea.

Iason shifted in his arms. He did have a parcel to deliver. He would rather deposit the misfit before it woke up. Quickly, he developed a strategy.

"Drop it off and retreat," he murmured to himself while carrying the child to the front door. The three figures came into view: Delia, Catherine, and Aegea. The older woman was advising his wife about the newest trends.

"You know Delia crimson dye is really catching on. Perhaps, if you change your wardrobe, your husband might not want you to leave the house so often," she preached.

With a unsure smile, the woman replied, "Well, I...I don't think."

"Trust me on this," gloated Aegea. "The more effort a woman puts towards herself, the more a man will make an effort to keep her. A little glitter goes a long way. Speaking of; what are you using for liner?" Trowa suppressed a growl

"Well...," admitted Delia. She unconsciously fluttered her lashes.

Trowa strolled right between the jabbering ladies. "Here," he tossed the boy in her arms like old laundry. Only thoughts of escape were in his mind.

An iron grip latched onto his arm, and a voiced hissed into his ear, "Get me away from her!" He wished he could help his sister out. However, he was formulating his own escape route, and as they said, 'Every man for himself'. He ignored that compassionate voice in his head that encouraged him to rescue Catherine.

"It isn't often that you see a man handling the children," voiced Aegea connivingly. He stopped cold in his retreat. Damn, he did not want to give her bait to use against him. He would not tell her how disrespectful his slaves were. He would not let her know how little control he had over the household. She would not make him admit that he was a broken husband that couldn't even handle his own boy and two lowly slaves.

"I thought I needed to bond with my only son, so I gave the slaves a break." He retreated upstairs, not ready to listen to her half-thought out theories.

As he reclined in his too familiar chair, words like, 'parasite', 'tale-monger', 'harpy queen', and 'control freak' popped into his head. That was what that woman was. She loved turmoil, marriages, and politics..., anything worth giving her opinion about, and she loved her own opinion. He already knew her opinion of him.

"A broken war horse out to stud," he growled. That was how he felt. His glory days as a soldier were over before they began. What ever happened to his career in Sparta, his goals, his future? He should be living in the barracks with his comrades. He should have a wife to be proud of, a strong woman, and not this gaudy, brainwashed, Athenian. (3)

He glared at the papers on his desk. Laid out before him should be great battle plans. He had the most promising, strategic mind in all of Sparta. Every plan he connived was pure art form. Now, he was trapped inside his sworn enemy's walls!

He glanced out his window leisurely. His slave was pulling at the garden vines with visible ferocity. The blonde was extremely determined to rip that piece of plant life to shreds. Now, what could have upsettled him so much? An amused smirk appeared on his lips.

* * *

"Stupid plants," grunted Quatre. He pulled on the weed, but it clung to the earth with more strength than the slave's. The blond yelped, as he fell backwards. The weed slid through his sullied hands and swung back into position, right next to the wall. The victor swayed leisurely with the wind, teasing the loser on the dirt. 

The slave slumped back in exhaustion. He stared at the sky for a while. The sun was blanketed by big fluffy clouds. Though not visible, he knew the sun was there, and he knew that it was as shiny and brilliant as ever. However, it was hard to see behind the wall like cloud. He squinted his eyes and tried to peer beyond the white veil, but it was pointless. The only way to see the sun was to move the clouds. Patiently, he waited for the gentle wind to blow the cloudy obstacles away.

How easy would it be to remove the obstacles from Trowa's soul? To expose his master properly, he might just need some gentle prodding and patience. Then he could further understand him.

He couldn't get 'Master' Trowa out of his mind! Ever since he witnessed that heated emerald stare, he knew that he desperately needed to pull his soul out of the pit of despair. He knew that Trowa might drag him down, but that was a chance he wanted to take.

He cleared his head enough to allow himself to work properly. However, Trowa was always a small niggle in the back of his mind.

He attempted to grasp the plant, but it jerked away from him. He was startled until he looked down and saw the turtle, Atlas, pulling at the weed. He chuckled and placed his hand on the creature's cold, hard shell. "So you want to help me with my work?" He watched the beast pull off a leaf and selfishly eat it. "I suppose not."

For his own health, he decided to concentrate solely on the task.

He grabbed the plant for one last battle. He had his work cut out for him; it seemed as though its roots extended all the way to Hades.

* * *

"Hey!" cried a voice from the dreary darkness of the Underworld. "Tell your mutt to heel." The newcomer slammed the huge gate before three large canine heads could barge through. The rattled young man breathed heavily, as he leaned against the oppressive iron doors. 

"Why would I do that?" replied the cold voice. "I trained him specifically to attack you."

"Haha, you're so cruel to the messenger. Didn't daddy teach you better?" replied the visitor. He quickly composed himself. By the time he finished his last remark, he had sounded as smooth as velvet.

Hades replied, "Actually, daddy ate me." (4)

"Must have been a naughty kid," he said while strolling into the dim, blue light. This young man looked like he did not belong in Hades. His jovial appearance contradicted all the decor. With long, chestnut hair, bright, violet eyes, and an heart shaped face, he really stood out. However, his most out-of-place accessory was his sandals adorned with wings.

"What is it, Hermes?" questioned the Lord of the Dead. He wore dark robes fitting his title, and yet he looked like an average young man. He had unruly, dark brown hair, and handsome, angled features. Hades' dark blue eyes could send anyone to an early grave, excluding the smiling god in front of him.

Hermes lightly perched himself on the Queen's throne. "I just decided to help you out by guiding another lost soul into Hades and this is the thanks I get?" he teased.

"Yes."

"Fine then," he replied in mock indignation. The wings on his sandals fluttered like they were caught in an intense tail wind, and he floated casually into the air. He brought his godly arms up and stretched. "I guess you don't need me to tell you the latest news from Olympus."

"Fine," Hades growled. He felt pent up and sexually frustrated, and the messenger wasn't helping him out in the least. He would probably stay irritated until the Fall, when Persephone would return to him.

He glared when Hermes floated directly in his face. Blue eyes met violet...; the unmovable wall met the unstoppable force. "You just had a dreamy look on your face. You were fantasizing about me!" Hermes swooned back, and remained in that position, floating five feet in the air. Hades couldn't stop the chuckle that escaped his lips.

The jovial god sprung up and took a bow. "Jeez Dark Lord, what would you do without me. For half a year you would have your head in you ass."

"Alright, alright," conceded the Lord of the Dead. He grabbed onto the other god's braid and lightly tugged Hermes closer, like a puppy on a leash. "Now what did you really want to tell me?"

He sat cross-legged on his invisible cushion in the air. "You know there is a huge uproar because of the Oracle's prediction," he related.

Hades replied, "Of course."

"Well, word has it that Hera is getting impatient. She wants that throne herself, so does half the ethereal plane, but she actually has the means to get. She's trying to rally all the other gods to support her. I think she might just overtake the throne soon, fates be damned," he explained.

"And where do you stand in all of this?" Hades questioned. He gazed lazily at the lock of hair still in his hands. Hermes shook his head. It was obvious that the Lord of the Dead had other things on his mind. If Fall didn't come soon, Hades might jump the nearest living thing. The chances of it being him, especially in a place filled with dead people, were pretty high.

Hermes told him, "I'm not taking sides yet. I suppose for now, I'll stand with Zeus. You?"

"This matter really doesn't concern me," admitted Hades.

"I take it you have no aspirations to become the next King of the Gods?"

Hades shook his head and gazed at his dark surroundings. "No, this place suits me just fine. Besides, it's too much trouble. I can understand, to a point, why Zeus seeks out so many means of entertainment." Hades let the braided rope of hair fall from his fingers.

His companion cackled almost evilly, "Is that what they call disguising yourself as various wildlife and committing bestiality with pure maidens?"

Hades commented, "You sure have a way of de-poetizing his affairs."

Hermes eyes gleamed with scandalous mischeif. He couldn't wait to see the expression on Hades' face when he revealed that Zeus, in his most critical moment in time, was once again seeking 'entertainment'.

* * *

It's time to name the gods.

Hades is the well known God of the Underworld. His name is rather infamous, so I don't expect anyone to forget him anytime soon. Hades usually keeps to his own domain, which is also named Hades. Heero is the God of Death. I believe he has the right icy demeaner.

Hermes, the Messenger God. I suppose everyone has guessed this is Duo. I found him perfect for the part. Besides being the Messenger for the Gods, he is also the messenger for the dead. This God gets around, so I can picture him making frequent visits to Hades, possibly to annoy Hades. He is famous for his winged sandals. He is less famous for his other attributes. He is the God of travellers, theives, and also the patron god of Alchemy. This part just screamed, 'Duo!'

Notes

(1) We all know Quatre is blond. It's not my personal fetish, but the ancient Greeks, or atleast the Athenians, had a thing for blonds. It was a rare and beautiful thing to have natural blond hair. Some women did dye their hair to make them more appealing. Funny how our society isn't much different.

(2) Turtles, dogs, and birds were popular pets..., but not cats. They did not like cats.

(3) Spartans and Athens, major rivals/enemies.

(4) No joke. His father, Cronos...Kronos (whatever the spelling) ate his kids. It's kind of common in mythology. You have to look this story up. (Basically, too lazy to continue notes.)


End file.
